Just the Beginning
by MournfulSeverity
Summary: It's December, seven months after Ron and Hermione began when they finally give themselves to one another. But, it's more than just an obstacle to overcome, an activity to enjoy. It's two hearts coming together to beat as one and Ron is beginning to realize just how much she means to him.


**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to JK Rowling

**Prompt:** Character A and Character B have been longtime friends until one night they become something more. Either write from the Point of View of Character C who pines for one or both Characters A and B. -OR- **2) Write from the POV of either A or B the day after they've hooked up. **

**The List:** #82 and #42

**Another big thanks to my beta, iNiGmA, who this fic was written for. **

* * *

He supposes the ceiling above him is white, but the truth is he isn't sure. It was dark the night before, when they arrived. But, that part didn't matter. His attention was placed solely on his companion. What color the ceiling was had been the least of his worries, and only made for an interesting topic of contemplation now.

The constellations of spackle are painted grey by the early light seeping between the fibers of the curtains that granted them privacy. It is different than the ceilings he had become accustomed to. The canvas of the tent they lived in for months, the meticulously crafted, wooden ceiling of Hogwarts, and his own — at the Burrow — through the cracks of which he could see the fuzzy edges of the ghoul that lived above him. This one, he decides, is his favorite.

Somewhere between when he was 11, laying beneath his Chudley Canons blanket, and now, a few months from when he will turn 19, things have changed. He supposes what building he lays his head in isn't the only change, and it is certainly the least important.

He shifts his head on the white cotton sheets that the inn supplied, his gaze falling to the other side of the bed. The bedding is pulled to Hermione's collarbone, hiding her from his view. One of her sable-shaded arms is draped across her middle, the other nestled beneath the cocoon of warmth they had created.

He walks his fingers across the mattress until they meet hers. Their fingertips brush against one another — a fraction of what they did last night — yet it ignites a fire within him. The embers spread from his hand until they settle finally in the space around his heart. He wants to wake her, to feel the burn of his flesh as it rubs against hers, but the peace on her face is one he could never break.

Her lips are plump, parted, as she dreams of other worlds. Ron remembers how smooth they are, how they felt beneath his own only hours before. Her hair is bushy, untamed and unkempt, spread about her like the beast that lives inside. As ferocious as the lion she was born to be. But her eyes. Her eyes are what he loves most — _has loved _most for some time.

They are the woods; the trees of the forest and the light that filters between. They're the leather of the books she holds so dear, and the golden trimmed pages within; the mud of the quidditch pitch that he has crashed into far too many times, and the snitches that won the games; the broomstick that they had rode on amongst the yellow flames that threatened to consume them. Her eyes are all of these and more.

He has spent months forming these associations, has found himself reminded of her every which way he turns. Perhaps, if he is honest with himself, he has done this for years.

He rolls away from her, relenting the warmth of her touch with a cuppa in mind. Black tea, a splash of milk. Brown, like her eyes. He reaches the edge of the mattress, his movement pulling her from her slumber. Ron feels the brush of her skin against his, the warmth of her hand caressing his bare side.

He draws the bedclothes down, freeing their naked forms. He can't help it as his eyes trail her body, remembering the things he did to her the night before. How his hands travelled down the curves of her side before lingering behind her, tightly gripping her arse. His ears redden at the thought. "'Mione, last night was…"

"Remarkable? Worth the wait?" Though her voice is fuzzy with sleep, her eyes sparkle with a rarely seen mischief, and he wants her all over again.

"Wonderful," he mumbles, his lips pressing against hers, intaking the warmth of morning. She presses against him, the tips of her breasts brushing against his own chest. Before he can form a thought other than how badly he wants to be inside her, she's on top of him, her legs pinning his pelvis to the bed.

The tenderness that lingered in his touch before is gone. He grips her tightly as they snog, intent on committing the feel of her to memory. How the ferocity of her soul could be contained in such a small presence, he'll never know.

There is a breadth of space between them, and he slides his fingers into it. His hand grows wet beneath her, sticky, as he searches for the tangle of nerves. Her lips tremble on his, a sharp inhale and then a moan, and he knows he's found her clit. He presses against it, rubbing his finger back and forth against her.

He continues in circles and eventually the movement of her lips slows, distracted by the pleasure he's providing. Hermione pulls away, gripping the wrist of his arm beneath her. "Stop, I can't…" Her mouth stumbles, searching for the words that he has forced from her memory. Her mind failing her for the first time. He obeys, his finger sliding from her clitoris and inside her instead.

She gives a whimper of approval, allowing the touch to continue. Her head is thrown backwards, her neck exposed with the weight of her hair falling behind her. He can see the marks he left last night, the abrasions across her throat from when he had made her his. Her shoulders tense only a moment before they drop, her eyelids falling with it, and he's sure he's pushed her too far. Sure she's going to cum on his hand here and now.

"_Ronald."_ Her voice is loud, begging him to send her over the edge. He curls his finger inside her, and what comes from her lips next is incomprehensible. Her thighs begin to tremble, and she pulls herself away from his touch. Pulls herself away before she's climaxed. He's disappointed.

When she's regained composure, Hermione lifts herself, turning until he's looking at the smooth curve of her can feel the wetness he caused pressing into his abdomen. She grabs hold of his cock, stroking him with one hand while the other plays with his scrotum, fondling it. He grips the bottom sheet of the bed, the fabric bunching in his fists as her hand explores the length of him. Up and down. His mind is focused on the rhythm of the movements, trying to keep himself from losing control. A breath escapes him as the wave of pleasure crests inside him. Up and down. "Fuck me." He manages, when he can't take it any longer. The movement stops. She releases the hold she had on him, and he almost begs her to start again, but he knows what's to come will be even better.

Before he knows it, she's facing him again, her body hovering above his. Her vulva brushes against him, and he relaxes, prepared for the release she's going to give. Instead, she pauses. There is no lowering herself on top of him, only the teasing of her flesh against his head. "Damnit, Hermione," he groans, gripping her hips.

She stretches away, taking something from the table beside them. There's a flash of light, the casting of a spell between them, a protection. Then comes the muffled thud of her wand falling to the bed next to them. An exhale of laughter, a faint giggle, and he feels himself slide inside of her, feels the warmth of her surround his throbbing cock.

His hands trail against her flesh, only the fingertips brushing her as they linger on her sides, around the fullness of her breasts. He cups them, his thumbs coming to her tits as her hips rock on top of him. Back and forth. Around.

"I like the sight of you between my legs." Her voice is unexpected, the swell of music at an orchestra, the rise of an evening tide. She leans forward, halting the movement of their bodies while her lips graze his ear. "You wanted me to fuck you." It's a whisper, words he wouldn't have heard if he hadn't been paying attention. "How's this?"

And it's brilliant, but he doesn't know how to find the words to tell her. He doesn't know how he could ever make her understand just how horny she makes him, and how he never wants to stop. He doesn't know how to say he wants to cum inside her without it sounding so crass, because it's more than that. Words had always failed him. It had always been her expertise more than his. He avoids saying anything, afraid that it won't satisfy her. Instead, he's determined to show her.

He pushes against her shoulder until she rises ever so slightly. The rhythm between them begins again, the dance he hopes they continue to practice. He moves his hand away from her chest, drawing her nipple into his mouth instead. She tastes of salt, of heat, and it may be the most delicious meal he's ever had. He rolls the bud beneath his tongue before giving it a gentle nip. Hermione cries out, a short groan — of pleasure or surprise, he isn't sure. He shivers.

He pulls away, his hands moving to her back. He flips her nimbly so that she lies beneath him. A coy smile stretches across her lips.

He's inside her, but neither of them are moving. He wants to watch her face crinkle with pleasure, wants to feel the release leave her body as he did the night before, but he can't help but look at her. At the brazenness that seems to be etched permanently in her features. And oh, Godric, is she sexy.

"If I'd known they made this model of broomstick, I would have started riding it years ago." His voice is teasing, husky with a desire only she can give.

"And if I had known you were this good, I might have let you." Her eyes trail down his body, from his freckled cheeks to the wisps of hair growing across his chest. Normally, he would have been embarrassed, but, somehow, he feels empowered. "I want you to cum for me."

And he almost does, but not yet. _Not yet._ He swallows, searching for some small measure of control. When the eruption seems less imminent, he thrusts, pounding into her. She shakes beneath him, her body shifting with the force of his movements. Her beasts bounce with each thrust.

An orchestra breaks out around them; the instruments of their sharp panting, of the slapping of skin, of her moaning beneath him, harmonize into one singular note. She pulls at her own nipples, her legs quaking. Her muscles contract against him, begging him to push deeper even though she's already there. The music swells around them as they reach the crescendo.

The coil inside of him that had been pulled tight, snaps, unable to take anymore. He feels the fire in his underbelly give way, spilling inside of her as he cums, just like she asked. The final note fades into silence.

She's limp beneath him, and they're sticky with sweat, cemented to one another with fatigue and perspiration. Reluctantly, he pulls out, rolling so that he lies beside her. Ron watches her chest heave up and down, searching for oxygen, and he smiles. The scent of sex lingers between them, thick in the air.

He leans forward, finding her lips again. The passion that was there only moments ago is replaced by tenderness. The kiss is soft, as she deserves. When he pulls away, his gaze meets hers. Brown, like the sticky toffee pudding he tended to overindulge in.

Some things never change.

"We're going to be late."

Hermione sighs. He's just as disappointed as she. In bed beside her — or even on top of her — is better than celebrating his brother's bloody birthday. The bedclothes are lifted off them in a flurry as she slips away, steps into the bathroom. He hears the turn of the knob, the spattering of water as it hits the bottom of the ceramic tub.

He thinks of the water, of how the droplets will hug her in a way he wishes he could. How wet she'll be. He's tempted to join her, but then they'll never get out of here. He stands, plucking a hand towel off the floor from the night before. He wipes himself before pulling on a set of pants, trousers, and a red sweater. He grimaces at the gold "R" knitted into the front. It'll make his Mum happy. That's the only reason he's wearing it.

* * *

She'd never cared for her looks, not like the other girls he knew. She found little need for make-up and didn't obsess over her hair, yet by the time she's ready and they disapparate, they've pushed the term "fashionably late" into simply "being rude."

His fingers are wrapped around hers as they step through the door of the Burrow and into the kitchen. Beyond it, laughter drifts from the sitting room, where he knows his family is camped around his second oldest brother.

The noise pauses as he and Hermione reach the room they crowd, each pair of eyes falling on them. The redhead-filled room is interspersed with shades of brown, Harry's hair, Angelina's, Hermione's. They're the only exceptions in the sea of orange.

"Where've you been?" Charlie begins, his voice full of incredulity that none of them believe. "Thought the two of you had been eaten by dragons."

"It's always about dragons with you, mate," Ron mocks, plonking on the floor beside Harry, Hermione slipping to the ground with them. Reuniting the trio that, with Ginny, had become four. He tosses the poorly wrapped package in his hands towards his brother, purposely aiming it off to the side.

Charlie leans to his right, catching it with ease. There's a reason he was Keeper. He tears into the wrappings, the paper falling to the floor in shreds around him. He holds up the metallic cloth in front of him, the light in the room shimmering across the scales of it. When his arms drop back to his lap, Charlie is looking at Ron, his eyebrows pinched together.

"It's ethically sourced," Hermione pipes up, filling the silence that had fallen. The silence that happened more often since the end of the war. "From the Ukrainian Ironbelly cullings."

Charlie nods, his lips momentarily tight. "Their numbers grew too big to remain secretive. It was quite unfortunate." Sliding his arms into the sleeves, he looks to Ron again. "It'll be perfect for handling the newborns. They're always quick to ignite."

The silence overtakes them again, filling the space that Fred had once occupied. It had been just over six months since they had lost him to a war they never should have had to fight. The rock in Ron's stomach has shrunk in that time, but it still rolls around inside him, brushing against the raw sides of his belly. He feels it now.

The red-rimmed eyes they had all shared, Mum and George still wear like this, moments when Fred should have been here, Ron's threatened to reappear. He hated the quiet that signaled his brother's absence. Fred would have mocked them, remarked on the shine of Charlie's new jacket and how he is too stubborn to be burnt anyway. George would have done it too, to be fair, but without his twin, he isn't the same. He's an incomplete puzzle of the person Ron has known, and he isn't sure if George will ever find the missing piece again.

"Well," Mum begins, her palms resting on her knees, on the ruddy-colored dress she's wearing. She was always the first to break the silence, unable to stand it any longer. "Should we have cake, then?"

His stomach grumbles at the word. He has forgone breakfast; a feat he'd never thought possible. That, coupled with the excursion he and Hermione have taken part in the night before and earlier this morning ensures that he is starving.

The troupe of Weasleys follow their matron into the kitchen, abandoning the gifts that had been given upon the floor. They crowd around the table, chairs squealing across the floor, plates clattering against the table, and all the sudden the Burrow is filled with sound once more.

Ron finds himself turning towards Hermione, the person in this room that has come to mean the most to him. She smiles, her lips parting and revealing the white of her teeth beneath. He reaches out, squeezing her fingers before rubbing his thumb across her thin knuckles as a plate is settled in front of him. Chocolate cake, brown.

He lets go of her, gripping his fork instead and shoveling a bite into his mouth like a rabid dog.

"Make sure you save some for the rest of us," Ginny calls from across the table, her grin teasing.

"Quiet, Gin." He forces the scowl of his words around the mush that fills his mouth. Normality continues; the teasing, the consumption of too many sweets, Charlie talking about his dragons, Percy about his new job within the court, George with his shop. It's what Ron's known all his life, the voices crowding against one another in the tiny space. He finds that happiness moves on, that life finds a way around the loss that has at one time seemed insurmountable.

When the cake is gone and little more than crumbs remain, when the dishes are cleaned and returned to the cupboards, and when the family begins to disperse, he and Hermione find themselves wandering up the staircases. She'd been here before, but the space of the last six months has changed everything he thought he knew about her, about himself, and he finds himself growing excited as the door to his childhood bedroom opens.

She flops backwards onto the garish orange blanket that cloaks his bed, the fabric wrinkling beneath her. Ron closes the door, and they're alone once again. He finds himself beside her, his eyes settling on her face, his thoughts anywhere but.

There was that feeling of being home, that comfort that settled into his bones as he walked into the Burrow, to his family, but it isn't there today. He realizes that it hasn't been there for some time. Home is no longer this place, within these walls that surround him. And, though he loves them, Home isn't the people downstairs either.

No, home was the thin walls of a tent in the bleakest winter months, the wet underbelly of the lake which housed the Chamber of Secrets just after, inside the Inn just last night. Home was all the moments between those walls; the fights, the joys, the little flashes that he thought didn't matter. Somehow, she is no longer the 11-year-old smart-ass that once drove him insane. She isn't just the girl that has saved his and Harry's backsides more times than he cares to admit. It is her now, she is home.

And he doesn't want to let her go.

"'Mi, what would you think…" His words trail off, a sudden uneasiness finding him, holding the words captive inside his throat. He's sure then, facing Voldemort was easier than this. "Would you…let's find a place, be together."

She is beautiful as she stares up at him, and his soul aches with the possibility that she might say no. That despite the things they've done, the places they've been, she'll want someone else. Her hands come to his head, combing through the stands of red that cover it. He just wishes she would just give him a bloody answer.

"Remember when we were in Australia? Ayers Rock?"

He nods, unsure what this has to do with anything. A simple yes or no would suffice.

"I think of it when I see you."

_A rock? A bloody rock?_

"I think of how lost I was, how afraid, alone. You were my family when I had none. I've wanted nothing more ever since."

His mouth is on hers then, and he's hungry, but it isn't food he wants this time, nor sex. The promise of her is more than enough, and he knows this is just the beginning.


End file.
